Getting Out
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: John pushes Sam a little too far. Sam's decision to quit school and hunt full time has unexpected and potentially tragic consequences. This was written for the Big Bang Challenge over on Supernaturalcoholics. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys, this is my entry for the Supernaturalaholics Anonymous / The Winchester Gospels "Big Bang" Fan Fiction Challenge! Hope you like it! It's preseason, so no real spoilers. Lots of action, drama, angst and potty mouth!

OOOOOO

GETTING OUT

CHAPTER ONE

John dropped the bomb on Sam at breakfast.

Sam dropped his spoon into his cereal bowl. "Quit the debate team!" he gasped incredulously. "But _why_?"

"Because last target practice you only hit six out of ten bottles." John took another sip of coffee, eying his youngest son warily.

Sam flushed angrily. His shortcomings in comparison to Dean in this area had already been impressed on him, more than once, over the last several months. "What's that got to do with the debate team?" he asked tightly.

"You're too distracted, Sam," John said flatly. "That kind of shooting will get you killed. Or your brother, or me. You need to get your focus back where it belongs. On the hunt."

Sam tried to stay calm, knowing that him losing his temper would only make his father dig his heels in. "Dad, we _talked _about this. I've added another two hours a week to my target practice. You said that would be enough!"

John shrugged. "I changed my mind." He rose from the table.

Sam got up too. "Dad, the debate team is important to me!" he protested, voice rising despite himself. "We've got our final debates next week and I've spent _hours _getting ready for them - "

"Which proves my point," John interrupted. "That's time you should be spending on training. No, Sam. Learning how to shoot is more important than arguing about bullshit with a bunch of kids."

Sam felt a sharp stab of pain at his father's casual dismissal. "Dad, it's not – this isn't _arguing_. My team _needs _me next week. They even elected me captain –"

"Sam," John interrupted him, amused. "That doesn't surprise me at all. You could make an argument for the sky being green."

"Dad, this is important to me, _please_." Sam's voice trembled with urgency.

"I want you home right after school tomorrow. I'm getting off work early and we're going up to Outlook to do some shooting."

"Dad - "

"No, Sam. We're done."

John started to turn away. Sam, flushed hot with rage, grabbed a coffee cup from the table and threw it at his father. "You son of a _bitch_!"

John ducked, barely avoiding the missile. It shattered against the kitchen cabinet, coffee and shards of porcelain exploding out in a wide swath.

"What the _hell_!" John yelled, astounded. "Sam!"

"_I'm_ not done, you bastard!" Sam shouted back.

"Have you lost your goddamned mind? Get hold of yourself, boy!"

"I have _had _it!" Eyes blazing, fists clenched, Sam advanced on him. "I'm sick of you treating me like a soldier in your damned army! I am _not_ quitting the debate team!"

"If I say you quit, then by God you _quit_!" John growled.

"No!"

"Just who the hell do you think you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to the asshole who's trying to ruin my life!" Sam raged.

John grabbed Sam by the shoulder and shoved him up against the wall. "You ungrateful little shit!"

Sam gave a bitter laugh. "What the hell do I have to be grateful for? For you dragging me around the country like _luggage_? For treating me like a prisoner? For telling me every single damned day that I'm not fucking _good_ enough?"

Footsteps thudded down the stairs and Dean burst into the room, face sharp with alarm. "Sam! Dad!"

Ignoring his brother, Sam pulled out of his father's grip. "This is bullshit! It's bad enough I never get more than a few weeks at any one school and that I don't have any friends - shit, you'll probably drag us out of town before school's over anyway! While we're here I'm staying on the team!"

"You're quitting, Sam."

"I'm – fucking – _not_!" Sam bit out stubbornly.

"Dad?" Dean said.

John held up a hand and Dean stilled instantly.

John stared at his youngest son and, with his eldest son there, managed to rein his temper in. "Yeah, Sam, you are."

Dean put a hand on Sam's arm and murmured something quietly.

Sam flung him off angrily, hot eyes fixed on his father. "_You can't make me_."

Lips tight, John turned away and grabbed his keys from the kitchen table. Eyes flat and cold, he said, "You quit the team, Sam. Or I'll yank your ass out of school."

He left the house, slamming the door behind him. A minute later, they heard his truck roar off down the street.

Dean was stunned. "Jesus, Sam." This scene had been excessive, even by Winchester standards.

Sam stood frozen. He couldn't think. He could barely breathe. His father's threat consumed him.

_You quit the team, Sam. Or I'll yank your ass out of school_.

No more school. No possibility of the college scholarship his school counselor had talked about. No way out of this life. _All _of his time training and hunting. Stuck in an endless round of kill or be killed, for the rest of his life.

This is your life, Sam Winchester.

Nausea twisted through him and he lurched to the sink, losing what little breakfast he'd eaten before his father lowered the boom.

Dean was beside him quickly, rubbing his back comfortingly as Sam choked up the last of his cereal and orange juice. When the paroxysms ended, Dean said, "You okay, Sammy?"

Sam looked at him despairingly. "What the hell do you care?"

"Come on, Sam –"

Sam shoved past Dean and stumbled upstairs to their room.

After cleaning up the mess in the kitchen, Dean found his brother lying on his bed, back turned to the door.

"Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

"Leave me alone." His voice was muffled.

"Sammy, if you'd just -"

"Goddamn it, leave me alone!"

Dean left, closing the door with a sharp click. Sam listened to the sound of his brother walking down the hall and downstairs. Then he buried his face in his pillow and let his tears fall.

OOOOOO

The house was quiet when John came home that evening.

Dean was in the kitchen getting dinner together. With a nod to his father, he dusted the chicken pieces with garlic and lemon pepper and stuck the pan into the oven, along with a few potatoes.

Then he took a bottle of Jack Daniels out of the cupboard along with two glasses and sat down at the table with his father, pouring them each a generous measure of the whiskey.

John took a swallow and sighed contentedly.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, we're good," Dean answered easily. "Bobby call yet?"

"He's got demon sign pointing northeast. He'll call when he's got the location nailed." John took another swallow. "How's your brother?"

"Haven't heard a peep out of him since I got home."

"I got a call from his school," said John. "Sam didn't go in today."

"No?" Dean said, surprised. Sam _hated _to miss school. They practically had to tie him to his bed if he got sick on a school day.

"I told them he was sick," John went on. "As upset as he was, it's probably a good thing he stayed home."

"Hmm."

John scowled at him. "You got something to say?" he said a little sharply.

Dean shook his head emphatically. "You're not getting _me _in the middle of it." "Good." John drained his glass and stood up. "I'm gonna grab a shower before dinner. How about we go out later, shoot a little pool?"

Dean grinned. "Think you can take me, old man?"

John smiled. "This old man is gonna kick your ass, _boy_."

On his way to the bathroom, John paused outside the boys' bedroom door and listened. It was quiet inside. There was none of the music that usually marked one of his sons being inside.

He knocked softly but there was no answer.

Damn it, he hated being on the outs with the boy, but Sam needed to learn that he couldn't always have what he wanted.

He'd get over it, he always did. After all, it wasn't like the debate team had any practical application in their life.

Putting the problem of youngest son out of his mind, he walked on to his shower.

OOOOOO

Dinner was quiet. John and Dean made casual conversation about the last hunt and the possible upcoming hunt back east. Sam ate little, kept his eyes on his plate and said nothing. When dinner was over, he washed and dried the dishes and then went back upstairs to his room.

When Dean went in later, Sam was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"We're going out for a while. You'll be okay?"

Sam nodded but said nothing.

"You know, this silent treatment is getting old," Dean snapped, irritated. "What the hell are you mad at _me _for?"

Sam got off the bed and walked past Dean and down the hall to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

Dean trailed him and banged on the door. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that? You got something to say to me, then freaking _say _it!"

The door flew open.

"You want me to say something, Dean?" Sam hissed. "Fine! Thanks a lot for all your support this morning! You _know _how much the debate club means to me but did you say anything to Dad? _Hell_, no!" "I'm sick of getting caught between you two," Dean hissed back. "Stop trying to drag me into your shit!"

"You're a selfish prick!" Sam said, shaking with anger. "Screw it, you know what? Forget about it. You go on, Dean. Go hang out with Dad. You both have what you want, so I guess that's all that matters."

Stung, Dean snapped, "Damn it, Sam, when are you going to freaking grow up?"

"Dean!" John called from downstairs.

Dean hesitated.

"Go on, go back to Dad," Sam spat angrily. "Be his good little soldier, his fucking _robot_! Just leave me the hell alone_. _I don't need you anymore!"

He shoved past Dean and ran back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Dean, what's going on?" John called impatiently from downstairs. "Let's get going! That beer isn't going to drink itself!"

"Gimme a minute, Dad!" Dean called back. Scowling, he stomped back to the bedroom. Ready to kick the door in if he had to, he stopped when he heard Sam crying. The sounds were low and choked, Sam obviously trying to stop, trying not to be overheard.

He sighed_. Crap._

"Dean!" John's voice was impatient. Dean could hear him starting up the stairs.

John coming up here right now would be a disaster. It was one thing if Dean saw Sam crying. If _John _saw him, Sam would freak out for sure.

Dean went quickly to the stairs and met his father at the top. "Sorry, Dad. Let's go."

John looked toward the boys' room. Dean moved past him, walking hurriedly down the stairs. "Come on, old man. If I don't beat you two games out of three tonight, I'll wash your truck once a week for the next month!"

OOOOOO


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Late the next morning, Dean was switching out the alternator on a sweet 1970 Dodge Challenger when his cell phone rang. Cursing, his hangover from the night before leaving him a little short-tempered, he wiped his hands on a rag and flipped open his cell.

"Dean, is Sam with you?"

"Hi to you too, Dad," Dean said sarcastically.

"Is he?"

"No," Dean said shortly. "He'd already gone to school when I got up this morning. Why?"

"Because I just got another call from his school saying Sam walked out of his third period class!"

"What? Why?"

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe someone looked at him wrong. Who knows what's up with him these days?"

Dean sighed. "Okay, Dad, I'll find him."

"What about your boss?"

"He's a good guy. He'll let me make up the time."

"Sam's probably out sulking somewhere," John said cynically. "That kid better get himself together. If he thinks I'm kidding about pulling him out of school, he can think again."

"Dad - "

"I'm serious, Dean. I'm sick of his shit. Find him and straighten his ass out, or I will." John hung up.

Dean slowly closed his phone. Then he slammed down the hood of the Challenger and went to find his boss.

OOOOOO

Sam tossed the last of his sandwich into the pond and watched the ducks snap and dive for it. Leaning back against the park bench, he closed his eyes against the early afternoon sun.

Nice. This was nice. No one talking to him or yelling at him. No one wanting anything from him. No one telling him to grow up, to be more like his older brother.

If life could stay _just _like this. A nice warm blur . . .

He sighed, tried to keep his mind blank. Tried to keep hold of that peace, but the events of the morning kept slipping in through the cracks and dragging him back.

Mrs. Cameron, the overseer teacher for the debate team had asked Sam to give a talk about the benefits of joining the debate team to some students after school.

_College_-_bound _students.

A week ago he'd have been happy to do it, happy to be included. But come on, really – what was the point?

"Join the debate team! It'll help develop your academic skills, give you a leg up in the college admissions process and it's a great way to meet chicks!"

"Me? No, _I _won't be going to college. I'll be too busy saving the world. Thanks for the thought, though!"

He hadn't had the courage to tell his teacher that his father was pulling him off the team. That, more than likely, they'd be on the road within the next month, so he wouldn't be here anyway. Chickenshit that he was, he'd run.

Remembering the confused and hurt look on her face, Sam swallowed hard. He couldn't _do _this anymore! It was too hard, being dragged back and forth between the "real" world and their world. It was tearing him apart.

Besides, Dad was right. A complete bastard, but right.

The work we do is important, he recited to himself. Saving people's lives is more important than anything I do in school.

School's not important. He could get a GED, like Dean had. He didn't need anything more. After all, there wasn't a chance in hell thathis family could afford to send him to college. And even if he got that scholarship the guidance counselor was always talking about, his dad would never let him go.

Sure, he'd had a few friends at school and he'd miss them. But in his life, what passed for friendship at school was a joke. After all, how close a friendship could it be when he couldn't tell them the truth about his family? About his _life_. The lies he told always stood between them, an insurmountable barrier to any kind of _real _friendship.

Dean was his only real friend. That used to be enough. Lately? Not so much. His brother didn't really have time for him anymore. He was going out more and more with their Dad - hunting, drinking, whatever. Or going out on his own, with the many women he couldn't seem to get enough of.

Sam couldn't remember the last time he and his brother had done anything more together than hunt. Sometimes, when he looked at his older brother, he felt like he was looking at a stranger.

And it's not like it was something he could talk to Dean about.

'Please, Dean, stay home with me tonight, I'm lonely.'

Could he _be _any more pathetic?

Besides, he didn't want to ask Dean. He wanted Dean to hang out with him because he _wanted _to, not because Sam begged him.

Sam would just have to toughen up and learn how to get along without him.

As for Dad? Didn't matter. Sam had never had him in the first place. Losing Mary had killed something in their father. He hadn't had anything for Sam but orders and criticism for years.

Plus - there was something wrong, something really _off, _in the way he'd been looking at Sam lately. Something more than just the irritation of a father with an unsatisfactory son, although that last stung enough on its own.

_Fine. _He would hunt. He would be the best hunter he could be. And that would be the end of all the fighting, the struggle, the wish to be something, _anything_, other than what he was.

Suddenly tired of all this introspection, tired of _himself_, Sam rose quickly and tripped over the book bag sitting at his feet, almost falling to the ground.

"_Damn _it!"

What am I carrying this stupid thing for, anyway! Piece of shit! Stupid books! Stupid notebooks! Useless shit!

"Fuck!" Wild with rage and frustration, Sam dumped his books out of the bag and volleyed them one by one into the pond, followed by his notebooks, his pens and then the bag itself, scattering the wildly quacking ducks.

Breathing ragged but slowly returning to normal, he stared at the debris sinking slowly beneath the surface of the water.

Okay then.

What now?

Home?

He sank back down on the bench.

OOOOOO

Dean stood at the top of the hill and looked down into the park at the duck pond.

Yep, there he was. Little brother – big little brother – angsting it up with the ducks. It was a big angst, too. Dean could tell by the slump of Sam's shoulders and the way his head was sunk into his hands.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. He was sick and tired of this crap. This war between his father and brother had been going on since his brother had learned the word no and it was getting worse every day. Kid just wouldn't give in, get with the program.

They were hunters. _Hunters_!

They lived, and died, so that others could live in (relative) peace and safety. Even if - _when_ - they destroyed the demon that had killed their mother, that didn't mean that they'd just stop and move to Mayberry. Evil would still be out there. People would still need to be saved.

Why didn't Sam get that? All he could see was what he didn't have, not what they _had_.

Although, okay, to be honest, it wasn't all Sam's fault. Their father was just as much to blame for the constant struggle between the two. Maybe more; he _was_ the adult.

John was stubborn, just as stubborn as Sam and he flat out hated being questioned; hated having to justify _any _decision, no matter how small. He didn't get that Sam wasn't questioning John to be an asshole, or to suggest that their father didn't know what he was doing. He just needed to understand the _why _of things.

Case in point: Sam could research like nobody's business and he used to love it. Half the time he'd known what they were dealing with long before John had; known the best way to deal with it, the safest way to take the monsters down.

But John, although he accepted the research that Sam did, would accept no input about how to go about the hunt for the creature. If Sam had an idea that differed from what their father had planned, John wouldn't listen. Period.

It was like Sam was only good for research; for vomiting up what someone else had already written.

So now, Sam did only as much as his father asked - bare minimum - and offered nothing more.

Dean didn't blame him. Couldn't be fun, having every idea you had shot down.

He couldn't understand why his father treated Sam so harshly. John said he was trying to protect him. That Sam needed to learn how to do _what _he was told _when _he was told; that his constant questioning would get himself, or all of them, killed.

Thing was, John listened to Dean; complimented him on his ideas, praised him when he did well. Why was it so hard for his father to do the same with Sam?

He started down the hill. Halfway down to his brother, Dean saw Sam get to his feet and trip over his book bag. Dean started to laugh then stopped and stared in astonishment as Sam dumped open the bag and started throwing its contents into the pond, scattering the hysterically quacking ducks.

"What the _hell_?"

This was all kinds of wrong.

His baby brother throwing books into a pond was the equivalent of a priest desecrating a crucifix.

Something was definitely up with his little brother.

OOOOOO

Sam knew the sound of Dean's footsteps. He didn't bother to look up.

"Hey, Sam."

"Dean."

Dean sat down next to him. "Whatcha doing?"

Sam shrugged. "Nothing."

"The school called Dad. Kinda freaked him out."

"Pissed him off, you mean."

"Yeah, maybe." Dean studied the expressionless look on his brother's face, the dark hair hanging over his shuttered eyes. "You ready to go home?"

Sam sat silently for a minute, then hauled himself to his feet. He turned and walked slowly back towards the hill and the street beyond.

Dean caught up with him. "Hold up - what's the deal with you throwing your stuff into the pond?"

Something moved briefly in Sam's eyes, then vanished. "I don't need them anymore."

OOOOOO

Sam stared at the floor and let his father's words flow over him. Disappointment, under the radar, more important things to do, be more like your brother. Same old, same old.

"Are you even _listening _to me?" John snapped.

"Yes, sir."

"Did you do what I told you?"

"Sir?"

"The debate team, Sam," John said impatiently.

"No, sir," Sam answered stonily.

John's face turned red. "I _told_ you –"

"I'm quitting school, sir."

"_What_?" John and Dean said together.

"I'm quitting school," Sam repeated. "I'm sixteen now. It's legal."

"Sammy, no," Dean protested.

John held up a hand to stop him. "Why, Sam?" he said sharply.

"It's like you said, sir. School's just a distraction," Sam said mechanically. "It's best to just focus on the job at hand."

John smiled. "You sure, Sammy?"

Sam flinched a little at the pet name. "Yes, sir. I'm sure. Can I go now? I have target practice."

"Yeah, sure, go ahead." He watched as Sam started to leave the room, then called him back. "Sam, hold on. Go pack. We've got a hunt. We'll be leaving first thing in the morning."

Sam nodded and left the room.

Dean looked at his father disbelievingly. "Dad, are you _kidding _me? You have to know this is wrong!"

"It's his choice, Dean," John said with satisfaction. "His decision."

"Sam _loves _school. He's only doing this because of what happened yesterday!"

"Sam leaving school is the best thing that could happen right now. We won't have to keep backtracking between hunts to pick him up; he can stay with us all the time. We'll be able to do more jobs - "

"Dad, you're not thinking about Sam here at all!"

"It's best for all of us, Dean," John said dismissively. "Go on now. Start packing."

OOOOOO

Dean watched as Sam packed. He made two piles – one for packing and the other for discards. The only things going into his duffel were clothing, weapons and a few research books. The discard pile was getting pretty damned big.

Dean walked over and looked through it. Books, school papers – shit, the soccer trophy his brother won two years ago. He looked up at Sam but before he could say anything, Sam said, "I'm not talking about this, Dean."

Dean said it anyway. "You don't have to quit school, Sammy."

Sam dumped another book on the discard pile. Cooper's 'Last of the Mohicans'; one of his favorites.

"Sam, come on, cut this shit out -"

Sam swung to face him and Dean took an involuntary step back at the sudden fury and pain on his brother's face.

"You told me to grow up, Dean. That's what I'm doing! Growing up! So why don't you just leave me alone and stop pretending that you give a shit - " Sam stopped abruptly when he saw the hurt blossom on Dean's face. The anger slowly drained out of him. He turned back to his packing. "Just drop it, Dean. I'm done fighting him."

Finished with his packing, the last of his belongings stowed in the duffel, he moved to pick up his discard pile.

Dean got to it first. "I'll take care of it, Sammy," he said quietly.

When he carried the discards through the living room, John looked up from the couch where he was going over some weapons and raised an eyebrow. "What's all that?"

"Stuff Sam says he doesn't need anymore," Dean said shortly.

John eyed the pile. "Huh." His attention went back to the weapons.

Dean stared at him angrily. "You're a selfish bastard, you know that?"

John's hands stilled. He didn't look up when Dean walked away.

OOOOOO

Sam watched as his brother left the room, tears hot in his eyes.

It's just stuff! Possessions. I don't need them. They're holding me back from being who I need to be.

Forcing the tears back, he made a final sweep through the room, making sure he wasn't leaving anything behind.

Bullshit and tears aside, he knew it wasn't just getting rid of the books that hurt so badly. Not just the memory of the soccer championship. And not just quitting school.

He was saying good-bye to hope. Good-bye to dreams of a life apart from hunting. Throwing away college and friends, and the hope that someday he would have a family of his own.

Instead, he would have a father who saw him as a soldier instead of a son, a brother who loved him, but also saw him as a burden, and a life full of blood and pain and death.

The one consolation about this shit storm of a life? It wasn't likely to be a long one.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"We got three dead so far," Bobby said. "Campers. No bodies, but too much blood at the campsites for anyone to still be alive."

"No chance it's a bear? Or a cougar?" John asked.

Bobby shook his head. "No tracks. Cougar or bear would have left sign. At the least, body parts. They're not real good at cleaning up after themselves."

"It could be a Wendigo," Dean said eagerly. "Or a Black Dog."

"Could be," Bobby said, smiling at the young man's enthusiasm. He looked over at Sam. No smile on that face. The young man's eyes were intent and focused on the matter at hand, but his normally expressive face was completely impassive.

Bobby'd been surprised to see Sam in the car when the Winchesters arrived. He'd been more than surprised - shocked, even - when John told him that his youngest son had quit school.

Neither of the boys had much to say on the subject, but John was clearly delighted, showing an almost exaggerated happiness at having Sam hunting with them full time.

Bobby understood why John would feel that way. But he wondered if the man had any idea of the pain his boy was in right now. 'Cause he could see it plain as day, and he could tell that Dean did, too.

Sam's soft voice broke into the older man's musings.

"It's probably a Wendigo," the youngest Winchester offered quietly. "I did some research last night and found similar deaths ten years ago. Four campers disappeared. Lots of blood, no bodies. And ten years before that. Five dead that time. It would fit. Wendigos tend to work in cycles that way."

"Nice job, son," John said approvingly.

Sam didn't acknowledge the compliment. His silence was just about to become awkward when Dean, grinning nervously, said, "Geek boy strikes again."

Giving Sam a hard look, John said to Bobby. "Start out in the morning?"

Bobby nodded. "It's almost a day's drive to Bend. A hour or so up to Mount Bachelor, then a half day's hike in to the latest kill site."

"Well, then, you boys better get to bed," John ordered. "I want you fresh in the morning."

"Yes, sir," the boys answered in unison.

The two boys headed upstairs to the spare room they used when they stayed at Bobby's. After washing up, they got into their beds.

They lay silent for a long time. Finally, Dean turned in his bed to face his brother. "How long you gonna hang on to it?"

"What?"

"Being mad at Dad."

"I'm not mad at Dad."

"You haven't said a word to him since we left Milton."

"Guess I don't have anything to say." Sam turned over, presenting his back to his brother. "I'm tired."

"Sam, come on –"

Sam didn't answer. He lay quietly, ignoring his brother's attempts to draw him out.

After a while, Dean gave up and fell asleep. Or, at least, he stopped talking.

Sam lay awake most of the night, listening to his brother's soft breathing. and waited for morning.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John went down on one knee and touched the dark patch of earth. His fingers came back stained a faint red. Nearly fresh blood. Maybe an hour old.

Wiping his finger on his jeans, he continued his methodical tracking through the dense forest, occasionally flicking a glance toward his three companions.

After a short while, a slight hiss from Dean caught his attention. The boy was holding up a torn and bloody scrap of clothing.

Someone was out here. Someone human. Question was, were they still alive?

That question was answered in the next moment as a faint scream sounded in the distance. All four hunters started running in that direction, keeping pace so as not to get separated.

Flare guns in hand, they burst into a clearing and skidded to a halt next to the torn and broken body of a very recently killed man. One arm was missing and his entrails scattered around the clearing. The strong coppery stink of blood hung in the air.

"Balls!" Bobby swore angrily. "That son of a bitch had to know we were close! He did this on purpose to draw us in. I'll bet you cash money he's close by, waiting for a chance to get at us."

Sam looked a little nervous at his words. Dean smiled reassuringly at him. "No worries, kid. Four of us, one of him. Sucker's toast."

"Look sharp, boys," John said tersely. "Find its trail."

The four of them did a slow sweep of the clearing, looking for something to show which direction the creature had taken, but there was so much blood spoor around it was impossible to get a definitive trail.

They would have to go into the trees to track it, hope to pick something up.

Taking a drink out of his water bottle while Bobby and John discussed strategy, Dean saw Sam staring into the forest, a puzzled frown on his face.

"What is it, Sam?"

Sam ignored him, continuing to stare into the woods.

Dean followed his gaze and his eyes widened.

_There was something in that tree._

"Dad!" he said in a low voice, looking away from it, but keeping it in his peripheral vision. "Don't turn around. About ten feet, straight ahead of us, thirty feet up."

After a moment, John said quietly, "Got him. Listen up, boys. We need a diversion. Move into the trees, twenty yards east of it. Move slow and make some noise. Keep its attention on you. Bobby and I are going to work around, try to get in range. Got it?"

Both boys murmured an affirmative and moved immediately into the trees, flare guns poised and ready.

"So, Sammy," Dean said loudly. "How's about we go out tonight? Have a drink, maybe pick up a couple of girls?"

"Sure, Dean, sounds fun. I could use an STD to round out my week." Dean winced. "Whoa, dude. That is harsh." Trying to be casual about it, the older boy kept a wary eye on his brother and on the trees around them.

"Are you kidding?" Sam scoffed. "I _saw _the last girl you picked up in Milton. She had so many tats I could barely see the skin underneath - "

"Just because she had tats doesn't mean she was a skank, Sammy," Dean said with dignity. "Just because _you're _planning to die a virgin - "

"Dean! Sam! Heads up!" John yelled urgently. "It's moving!"

Too late. In the next moment, Dean's eyes widened with horror as a long, mottled arm reached down out of the tree above, grabbed Sam by the back of his jacket and hauled him up into the tree.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. "Dean, _help!_"

Dean brought his flare gun to bear on the creature but it was too fast. Sam was gone, his flare gun falling to the ground at Dean's feet.

"Dad! Bobby!" Dean screamed. "It's got Sam!"

OOOOOO

The Wendigo leaped swiftly through the trees, Sam tucked under one strong arm. Sam struggled wildly, punching and clawing at the creature, but all that got him was a growl and a punch to the head that stunned him.

A little groggy, he strained to stare up into the monster's face and shuddered at the cruel, twisted features and the bat-like ears. It glanced down briefly at him and its eyes were flat and cold, like the eyes of a shark he'd seen on t.v. once. There was nothing in those eyes. It was predator. He was prey. Nothing more.

Sam could hear Dean's shouts below him and his father and Bobby's answering voices. The Wendigo heard them, too; it picked up its pace, clutching Sam even tighter.

The farther they went, Sam knew, the less chance he had of being found before it was too late. He had to do something, and do it now. He fumbled for the extra flare gun he'd stowed in his jacket pocket.

He stared at the ground below. It looked like it was at least forty feet to the ground. A nasty fall, but all in all, he'd rather die of a broken neck than have this ugly bastard eat his ass.

With a grimace and a final look at the ground below, he stuck the pistol against the creature's torso and pulled the trigger.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

A scream tore through the air. Spinning round to track the sound, Dean saw a burning body fall through the canopy of trees.

"Sam!" he screamed. "Sam!" He ran toward where he'd seen the body fall, John and Bobby arrowing in frantically to join him.

They found the Wendigo dead beneath a tree, already almost completely burned to ash.

There was no sign of Sam.

"Oh. God," Dean said fearfully. "Where is he?" He looked up into the trees. "Is he still up there?"

"We have to spread out," John said fiercely. "If he fell with the thing, he can't be too far away." He grasped Dean's arm tightly. "Son, we'll find him. I _swear _to you, we'll find him!"

Tears in his eyes, Dean glared at his father. "He shouldn't even be here, Dad!"

"Search now, fight later!" Bobby said angrily. "Come on, move it!"

The three scattered into the surrounding trees.

OOOOOO

It didn't take long.

Spotting a silent form lying on the ground about one hundred yards away from the dead Wendigo, Bobby bawled out, "Over here!"

Bending over Sam's body with a muffled curse, he ran his hands over him quickly, checking for injuries. John and Dean came running, dropping to their knees beside the boy.

"Is he alive? Sam?" Dean put an anxious hand on his brother's throat, feeling for a pulse, and laughed in relief when he found it. "That's my boy, Sammy. That's my boy!"

"He's got one hell of a bump on his head," Bobby said quickly. "And I think that right ankle's swelling. Could be internal injuries. We'll know better when he wakes up."

Dean stroked his brother's face anxiously. "Sam?"

Sam didn't stir. Dean looked at his father, face drawn, begging him to somehow fix this.

John stood up, staring down at his injured son and thinking. They were a half day's trek from their vehicles. Not a big deal normally, but Sam might not be able to walk out.

They could call for help, but he hated to do that unless it was absolutely necessary. They didn't need the attention calling a rescue chopper in would give them, especially with the trouble the Wendigo had been kicking up lately.

"We'll fix up a travois," he decided. "Dean, go cut some branches. We're gonna have to haul him."

"But Dad, what about the sat phone?" Dean protested. "You can call for help! We've got to get Sam to a hospital!"

"Calling for a rescue chopper means cops. We don't need that kind of exposure."

"Dad -"

"When Sam wakes up, if it looks like he's got any internal injuries, I'll call," John said curtly. "Go on, Dean, get some branches. You know what we need."

Dean looked down at his unconscious brother, clearly unwilling to leave him.

Feeling sorry for the distressed boy, Bobby rose. "I'll get the branches. You two stay here with Sam. I'll bury the Wendigo's ashes, too. Don't want someone finding them."

John was about to protest and reinforce his order to Dean, but when the older man fixed him with a stern glare, he subsided reluctantly.

Dean slid his pack off of his back, pulled out the first-aid kit and started cleaning the myriad of cuts and bruises on Sam's face. The sting and sharp scent of alcohol brought him around in a couple of minutes and he looked up at Dean with bewildered eyes.

Relieved, Dean grinned down at him. "About freaking time you woke up. You scared the crap out of me!"

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, confused.

Dean smiled and brushed back a lock of dark hair back from his brother's face. "What the hell are you apologizing for? Killing a Wendigo all by yourself?"

Sam shuddered, flashing back to the creature's rough, clawed hands on him, its devilish features, and the stink of blood on its breath. "It's dead?"

"Like I said. Toasted! Not too thrilled you had to do it Tarzan-style," Dean admitted, "but it's dead and you're not, so we're gonna count that a win."

"Good," Sam said faintly. "Ugly fucker."

Dean snickered, looking over at their father.

"Wait," Sam said, alarmed,. "Bobby, where's Bobby?"

"He's okay," Dean reassured him. "He's burying Mr. Fugly."

Relieved, Sam tried to sit up, but whitened at the movement. A small gasp escaped him.

John moved to his side. "Your head?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said, biting his lip.

"Dean, hand me the flashlight." He shone the light in Sam's eyes and nodded in satisfaction when both pupils remained equal. "Good. Don't think you have a concussion." He tossed the flashlight back to Dean.

"We're going to put together a travois and carry you out. But first I'm want to look you over, check for internal bleeding. Tell me if anything hurts."

John began by palpating Sam's abdomen. There were no hard places indicating pooling blood so he wasn't surprised when his son showed no signs of significant pain.

Satisfied there was no internal bleeding, he went over the rest of his son's body quickly but thoroughly.

Once he was done with his examination, John sat back on his heels. "Damn, boy, you got off lucky! Aside from a headache and a sprained ankle, you're good to go. We might not need that travois after all,"

Sam looked at Dean. "Can I have some water?"

Dean held a bottle of water to his Sam's lips. After a couple of swallows, John said gruffly, "Not too much, Dean. Give him a couple of minutes, then he can have some more."

Dean nodded and put the bottle away. He ran a gentle hand over Sam's head.

Wanting to get out from under John's stern eye, Sam said suddenly, "Dean, help me sit up."

"Give yourself another couple minutes, Sam," Dean said. "That was a pretty hard fall."

"Dean, I'm fine," Sam repeated stubbornly. "Help me sit up."

Dean looked at his father for help, but John remained silent. He might not be the most observant father in the world, but it hadn't escaped his attention that Sam wasn't speaking to him. And, come to think of it, hadn't for a couple of days.

Granted, it was pretty standard for Sam to want his brother instead of his father when he was injured, but he generally at least _spoke _to him.

John's temper, never good at the best of times, started to simmer.

"Dad?" Dean said again.

John shrugged. "You sure, Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

"You heard him, Dean." John turned away. "Says he's fine."

More than a little angry at the pair's stubbornness, Dean slipped an arm around Sam's shoulders and helped him to sit up. Sam turned even whiter, but after a minute said, "I'm okay."

"You're fucking nuts," Dean muttered.

"Really, Dean," Sam insisted. "I'm okay. I feel better being up."

Ready to argue the point, Dean heard the sound of approaching footsteps and his hand went to the pistol at his belt. He relaxed when he saw it was Bobby, carrying a big armful of pine boughs.

Bobby smiled when he saw Sam sitting up, seemingly unhurt. "Hey, boy. How you doing?"

Sam smiled. "I'm okay, Bobby. Little headache, that's all."

"Yeah, well, I don't agree," Dean snapped. "Kid fell at least forty feet, Bobby, and he took a pretty good knock to the head. We've got a sat phone. We should call for a chopper and get him checked out at a hospital."

He saw the frowning refusal on John's face and said angrily. "Dad, what if we get halfway out of here and he starts bleeding out on us?"

"Dean," Sam interrupted, "I'm _fine_."

"You heard him, Dean," John shrugged. "He sounds okay to me. Sam, be sure to speak up if you start to feel off. Like Dean said, I have the sat phone. We need to, we can call in."

John looked at Bobby and shrugged apologetically. "Looks like we won't need that travois after all."

Dean huffed out an angry breath. "What about his ankle?"

Sam laid a hand on his shoulder. "I just want to get out of here, okay?" he said softly. "If you'll help me . . . "

Dean looked into his eyes and nodded reluctantly. "You _tell _me if you start feeling worse, okay?"

"I will."

Dean looked unconvinced.

"I promise," Sam added.

OOOOOO

John ranged out in front of his boys on the trek out of the forest, dropping back once in a while to check on them.

They started out with Dean supporting Sam on one side. Two hours into the trek, Bobby was supporting the boy on the other side. Near dusk, they stopped to rest near a small, meandering creek. Bobby and Dean lowered Sam gently down to the ground and he lay back, exhausted. Dean handed him a bottle of water and Dean sat down next to him, talking quietly to him.

John stood over the boys and checked his compass. "We'll be out in about an hour." He looked down at Sam. "You gonna be okay?"

Sam nodded, white-faced but determined.

Bobby crouched down next to him. "We can still do the travois, kid," he said gently.

Sam shook his head again. "It's just an hour," he said, taking another swallow of water. "I can do an hour."

"Stubborn git," Bobby said, grinning. Sam smiled wearily back at him.

Dean wasn't smiling. All _he _wanted was to get his baby brother out of this hell hole.

What he'd thought would be a fun trip had turned out to be the hunt from freaking hell. Seeing that fugly's arm come down out of the tree and haul Sam up - the look of terror on his brother's face - it had been maybe the worst moment of his life. He'd come close to losing Sam today. Too close.

And he'd made a decision. Sam's ass was back in school. No more of this self-sacrificing shit. No matter what Dad _or _Sam said.

"Five minutes, okay, boys?" John said.

Dean nodded abstractedly, not looking up at him. He ran his palm over Sam's forehead. A little warm, but not too bad. "You want some jerky, Sam?"

"Nah, thanks. Not hungry."

"You sure about the travois?" Dean asked abruptly. "Wouldn't take long for me and Bobby to put it together."

"Dean – " Sam sighed. "I'm okay. I can do an hour standing on my head."

"Huh." Dean scoffed. "Like you'd do anything to mess up your hair up." He saw his father checking his watch. "Come on, kid, let's get you up."

Once Dean had Sam up, Bobby went to Sam's side and put an arm around his waist, taking some of his weight off of his injured ankle. "You ready, kid?"

"I'm good, Bobby, thanks," Sam answered, giving him a grateful smile. John leading the way, they went on.

Ninety minutes later, they were back at the road. Half an hour after that they were in the cars and heading back down the mountain to Bend.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Sam sank down onto the motel bed with a sigh of relief. It felt wonderful. Clean and cool, the soft mattress cradled his body, drawing him in, dangling sleep in front of him like a wonderful dream.

He was filthy and stinking. His head hurt, his ankle ached and he was itching like crazy with what he suspected was poison ivy, but he didn't care. All he wanted was sleep.

He snuggled into the pillow, humming contentedly. He could hear his brother and father talking quietly somewhere in the room. He heard the motel room door close. Someone sat down on the bed next to him.

"Sam."

Sam opened his eyes sleepily. "Tired, Dad."

"You need a shower before you sleep, Sam," John said firmly. "But before you get in there, I want to take another look at you."

Yawning, Sam lay still.

The pupils of Sam's eyes still looked good, John decided,. The ankle was swollen; the boy would have to take it easy the next couple of days. There was no fever to speak of, none of the cuts he'd sustained in the fall were severe enough to need stitches, and none of them looked infected.

After the boy showered, he'd put antibiotic ointment on them, but all in all, it was looking like Sam was going to come out of this adventure with nothing more than a few bruises and a bad scare.

He patted Sam on the shoulder. "You did good today, son. You kept your head in a situation that a lot of more experienced men might have panicked in, and you killed a creature responsible for a lot of innocent deaths. I'm proud of you."

When he finished, John expected a look of pride from the boy; perhaps some gratitude for the praise.

Sam just stared up at him with the most completely blank face John had ever seen on him, and he'd seen a _lot _over the last few years. Then he got out of bed and limped toward the bathroom.

The irritation John had been feeling for the last few days at Sam's behavior toward him returned, and more. He rose from the bed and stalked after him.

"Sam!"

After a minute, Sam turned and faced him. This time his face was not blank. He glared at his father with unmistakable hostility. "You want to do this now?"

"I will _not _be ignored." John snapped. "You will show me some respect. I'm still your father."

"Then why don't you freaking act like one!" Sam said sharply.

John's face darkened. "Sam –" he started warningly.

"I've tried to be someone you could be proud of, my whole life, and _this _is what it took? Well, shit, if I'd known all it would take was nearly getting myself killed – no, wait, that can't be it. I can't even _count _the times I've almost been killed!"

"You know what I think? I think the real reason you're proud is because I've finally knuckled under and you know I'm going to be a good little soldier in your stupid war!"

John stepped closer and loomed over him menacingly. "You need to shut that smart mouth of yours, boy. You know why we fight."

"What, for Mom? Dad, I never even knew her! She's a stranger to me! You and Dean, you never talk about her. When I ask you about her, you ignore me or you get mad!" Sam gave a bitter laugh.

John tried to speak, but Sam barreled over him.

"Maybe you get angry because you know she wouldn't have wanted this for us! Maybe you get mad because you know you're a rotten excuse for a father and she'd hate you for what you've done to us!"

John's hand flashed out and struck Sam across the face. The force of the blow sent his son stumbling back to collide with the wall, Stunned, Sam slipped down to the floor.

John advanced on his son, Sam's angry words tearing through him.

"She died for you, Sam!" he growled, beyond caring how this would hurt the boy. "For _you_!"

Sam stared up at him, bewildered. "What?"

"The demon was in _your _room. He came for _you_. Your mother tried to save you and he killed her for it."

"_No_."

"It's time you knew," John spat angrily. "Your mother found him standing over your crib and he killed her. He ripped her stomach open and roasted her on the ceiling."

He was shouting now. "She died in agony and it's your fault, Sam, _your fault_. So stop acting like a spoiled brat and start acting like her sacrifice means something to you!"

Bobby and Dean chose that moment to come back into the room.

Pushing the door open, both their arms full of take-out bags, they froze, seeing John standing over his son with clenched fists, and Sam on the floor, cowering back from him with wide, horrified eyes.

"Sam!" Dean shoved his bags into Bobby's arms and pushed past his father, dropping on his knees next to his brother.

Sam didn't look at him, just stared up at John, his hazel eyes filled with tears and pain.

Dean touched the red mark on Sam's cheek and glared up at John. "You _hit_ him?"

John's temper was starting to cool a bit and he was already regretting what he'd said to the boy. "Once," he admitted reluctantly.

Dean tried to lift Sam off the floor. Sam shrank back.

"This isn't from you hitting him _once_, Dad!" Dean said angrily. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing he didn't ask for," John snapped back defensively. Seeing tears start down Sam's face, he grabbed his coat and turned away from his sons, pushing past Bobby without meeting his eyes.

Seconds later, they heard his truck pulling away from the motel.

"Bobby, can you give me a hand?" Dean said.

Bobby dumped the food on the table and the two of them hoisted Sam to his feet and sat him on the bed.

"What happened, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head desperately. "Nothing. Nothing!" He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth miserably.

Dean looked up at the older hunter. "Bobby . . ."

"I'll leave you two alone. You need me, I'll be in my room next door."

Looking down at the shaking boy, Bobby laid a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "Talk to your brother, Sam," he said kindly. "Nothing's so bad it can't be fixed tomorrow."

OOOOOO

Sam wasn't talking, he wasn't eating and he wouldn't lay down. When the boy shook his head at the suggestion of a shower, Dean sighed and pulled rank. "Sorry, dude. You're having the shower. You reek."

He walked his brother into the bathroom and, when he showed signs of being perfectly willing to strip Sam himself in order to get him into the tub, Sam came to life.

"Okay, Dean. Okay," he said. "Just – get out. I'm fine."

Dean shrugged. "Don't use all the hot water, shrimp."

Eating his dinner while he waited for Sam to finish his shower, Dean stewed. Whatever shit storm had blown up this time between his father and brother, it was a freaking lulu.

Sam had driven his Dad to the edge many times, but their father had _never _hit him in the face before. Spankings, yes, for both of them. But to hit Sam in the face - he _had_ to find out what had happened.

And since there wasn't a chance in hell Dad would spill, his only choice was prying it out of his brother.

When Sam came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, he was clean but nearly out on his feet. He made a beeline for his bed, but Dean snagged him by the arm and pulled him to the table, setting a cheeseburger and fries in front of him.

"It's mostly cold," he said flatly, "but you gotta eat."

Sam was too tired to argue. He ate half the burger and most of the fries, then sat swaying in the chair, eyes at half-mast.

"Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I need you to tell me what happened."

Sam stared down at his hands, clenched together tightly in his lap. "It was my fault, Dean."

"Why did he hit you?"

"It doesn't matter," Sam muttered. "It was my fault, I told you. Just leave it."

"I can't, Sam. I gotta know."

"Why can't you –" Sam looked at him helplessly. "Why do you have to push this?"

"Because you're a close-mouthed little bitch and it's the only way I ever find anything out," Dean said frankly. "Dad _hit_ you. He's never done that before and I'm going to make damn sure it never happens again." He narrowed his eyes. "Now you _tell_ me what happened."

Miserable, Sam stared down at the floor. "Sam," Dean said impatiently. "Come on, just –"

"Promise you won't hate me," Sam whispered.

"What?"

"Promise," Sam insisted. "Promise you won't hate me."

_What the _– "Sam, you're such a fucking drama queen," Dean said, exasperated. "Of course I'm not gonna _hate_ you."

"Dad does."

"Damn it. Dad doesn't – "

"He told me what happened –" Sam's breath hitched – "he told me what happened the night – the night Mom died."

"What are you talking about?" Dean said, confused. "You already knew what happened. Mom was killed by a demon."

"Dad told me. He told me - he told me the demon came for _me_," he said in a rush. "He said the demon killed her because of me. He said –" Sam gulped. "He said it was my fault."

Dean sat frozen, staring at him.

The longer the silence stretched out, the more frightened Sam became. When he couldn't stand the silence any longer, he said in a small voice, "Dean?"

Their eyes met.

Sam lurched to his feet and backed away from the table.

Dean rose, slowly, and Sam pressing himself against the wall, wide-eyed and wary.

At the sight of his brother's fear, Dean tried to push down the black rage coursing through him. "Sammy." His voice was harsh.

Sam flinched.

Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm not mad at you."

Sam wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. He'd seen Dean angry before, had seen him in blind rages, but the fury he saw in his eyes now was on a whole different level, and scary as hell.

"I'm not mad at you," Dean repeated, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He walked toward his brother. "I swear, it's not you I'm mad at."

Dean put a hand on Sam's arm and felt the trembling of his brother's slim frame. "Listen to me. Dad was just mad. He doesn't really believe - what he said to you."

"He wouldn't have said it if he didn't think it." A single tear fell down Sam's cheek and he wiped it away quickly.

"He lost his temper, right?"

Sam nodded reluctantly. "I said some pretty crappy stuff to him."

Dean nodded. "You know how he is when he loses his temper. He'll say damned near anything."

"But Dean - "

Dean shook his head. "You were six months old, Sam. How could it be your fault?"

Sam looked unconvinced.

"Look at it this way," Dean went on. "If it were me that demon came after, and my crib Mom died over, would you think it was _my _fault?"

"_No_." Sam said definitively

"So how is this any different?" He saw the beginnings of acceptance in Sam's face and managed a smile. "Good."

After a minute, Sam was leaning heavily on him and when Dean looked into his face, he saw the boy was half-asleep on his feet. He guided his brother over to the bed and Sam fell heavily across it, asleep before Dean pulled the covers up over him.

OOOOOO


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

_Sammy stares up at the stranger smiling down at him. Not daddy, not mommy. Not Dean. _

_Bad man. _

_Sammy whimpers. _

"_Hey, kiddo," the man whispers. "Good to see you."_

_Bad man drips something into his mouth - not milk. Bad. Nasty. _

_Want Mommy. Want Daddy. Dean! Bad man! _

_His whimpers grow louder. _

_There is a harsh gasp in the room behind the man. _

_Mommy! _

_The man turns away and the gasp grows into a scream that frightens baby Sammy. _

_Mommy is suddenly above him. She is crying and that frightens him. He starts to cry along with her. _

_The man is leaning over him again. "See you soon, Sammy!" _

_Then he is gone and Sam's cries stop. _

_Mommy is still crying. But now Daddy is here and Sammy is glad. Daddy will help Mommy. _

_Mommy? _

OOOOOO

Sam woke.

Panting, he sat up, sweat-dark hair hanging into his face, hands twisting in the sheets.

"_Mom_!"

He'd never known his mother, but in this moment she was dying in front of him - bleeding, _burning_, her pain indescribable, eyes wide and panic-stricken, but at the same time, filled with love and fear for him.

Agonizing grief and pain rolled over him. "_Mom_," Sam moaned. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

His fault.

It didn't matter that he'd only been a baby. He'd been the demon's focus and his mother had died for it. Rage joined his grief and pain and he clutched at his hair, pulling it hard, using the pain to try and force back the tears.

He heard someone at the door and threw himself from the bed, gasping with pain as his injured ankle hit the floor. He ran for the bathroom, shutting the door as the outside door opened.

Arms clenched hard across his belly, he bit his lips, struggling to hold back the sobs.

"Sam?"

He tried to speak but couldn't quite manage it. Fumbling, he managed to flush the toilet and took a deep gasping breath underneath the sound.

"Sam, you okay?" Dean's voice was worried.

After a moment, he managed to get his voice under control. "I'm okay. I'll be out in a minute."

Dean must have caught something in his voice, because the doorknob rattled. "Sam?"

Sam took another deep breath and tried again. "Dean, I'm okay. Give me a minute."

After a few seconds, Dean walked away from the door.

Shaking, Sam bent over the sink and splashed some cold water onto his face.

_Mom_.

What the hell was he going to do? It had been bad enough before. But now, knowing that his father blamed him for the death of his mother? How was he supposed to live with him knowing that ugly accusation was lurking beneath the surface of everything the man said to him?

Was that even possible?

And what about Dean?

Sure, Dean said he didn't blame Sam, but was there some small part of him, some part even he wasn't aware of, that did? He'd followed John's lead his entire life. Sam's eyes filled. If he ever heard those awful words of condemnation coming from Dean - he couldn't bear it.

He fell onto the closed toilet seat and struggled to get himself back under control.

OOOOOO

"He okay?"

"Sure." Dean scowled. "Unless you count the part where Dad ripped his heart out."

Bobby sighed. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Dean gave him a quick rundown, interspersed with a lot of imaginative profanity.

"Damn." Bobby pulled off his ball cap and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Your dad's a good man, but I swear, sometimes he ain't got the sense God gave a goose."

Dean shook his head wearily. "Sam pushed him, he admitted that. But damn - I can't believe Dad said that to him."

"You think he really believes it's Sam's fault your mama died?"

"I don't know, Bobby. But thanks to Dad, Sam sure did. I managed to talk him around, but - you know how the kid is. He's always ready to believe the absolute worst about himself."

Sam came out of the bathroom and nodded a good morning. Dean could see from his face that something was wrong, probably another one of those damned nightmares, but he decided not to bring it up, at least for now.

"Where's Dad?" Sam asked.

"Don't know," Dean answered shortly. "Don't care."

He watched as Sam limped over to the table and picked up one of the coffees. "How's the ankle?"

"It's fine," Sam said, a little irritably, wanting the focus off himself. "Think I twisted it when I fell last night. No big deal."

Dean shrugged. "Fine."

"Hey, Sam," Bobby said quickly. "Me and Dean were just talking about you two coming to stay with me for a few days."

Sam raised his head and stared at him in astonishment. "With you?" He frowned, "Will Dad be there?"

Bobby grinned. "Not unless he wants a butt full of rock salt."

Sam thought about a few days away from his dad and felt a little of the tension seep away. "You still got Rumsfeld?"

"I do. Thing is, I sure could use your help. I got some new books in, but the yard's been so busy, I haven't had time to catalog them."

"Sounds good, doesn't it?" Dean said. "Kick back for a few days, relax."

"Relax?" Bobby scoffed. "Think again, boy. I got a shitload of work needs doing, and it's got your name all over it."

Dean looked at him eagerly. "Cars?"

"Course."

Dean grinned. "Far as I'm concerned, that _is _a vacation. Awesome!"

"Yeah, Bobby," Sam's smile was wide and genuine. "Thanks."

OOOOOO

Their gear packed, Sam got dressed while Dean went with Bobby to gas up the cars. When they came back, Sam came out of the motel room barefoot, and came over to the Impala.

"Hey, are my shoes in there?" he asked.

Dean glanced around. "Don't see 'em. They're not inside?"

Sam gave him an exasperated look. "You think I might've looked in there before I asked if they're in the car?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe they're under the seat." He went into the motel room and brought out their bags, packing them into the trunk of the car. He checking the trunk to make sure Sam's shoes hadn't made it in there for some reason.

Sam turned the Impala inside out. He found a knife he'd been looking for the last two months, Dean's AC/DC shirt, and a lot of empty beer cans, but no shoes. "_Damn it_."

"What's the big deal?" Dean asked. "They your favorite pair or something? Just wear something else."

Trying to figure out where the hell else to look, Sam didn't look at him. "I would if I could. They're the only shoes I've got."

"What?" Dean remembered them then, a beat up pair of old running shoes, worn down at the heel and the toes nearly worn through. "Oh, hell."

"What?"

"Your shoes, Sam - last night, when we got back to the car, your ankle was really swollen. We took your shoes off so you'd be more comfortable."

"And?" Sam was starting to look suspicious.

"I'm not sure your shoes actually made it into the car," Dean admitted guiltily.

"Oh," Sam said blankly. He looked down at his bare feet. "Oh."

Feeling like a real shit - not only had he lost his brother's only pair of shoes, but, damn it, his brother only had one pair of fucking shoes! - Dean said quickly, "Gimme a minute, Sam. I've got a pair of boots in the trunk you can have -"

"Your boots won't fit me," Sam interrupted. "They're too small." He looked up and down the block. No shoe stores. No stores of any kind that looked like they might have shoes.

An all-too-familiar rage and frustration started to build inside him and he stuffed it back down.

Not Dean's fault. I should've asked Dad to get me a new pair. Yeah, okay, he _had _asked Dan a couple of times, but John had kept putting it off. Should've pressed him harder, then maybe I wouldn't be standing here in a fucking motel parking lot with dirty feet.

Trying to hide his anger, he turned and started back to the room. "I'm gonna make sure we didn't leave anything behind."

"Sam, we can stop on the way to Bobby's and pick you up a pair -"

"Okay, Dean, great, thanks." Sam tossed a strained smile over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

"_Damn it_!" Dean slammed a hand down on the hood of the Impala, then patted her with a quiet apology.

Damn it, he should have noticed. He knew his dad couldn't be counted on to keep on top of stuff like that. Hell, he'd never _had _to, Dean had always taken care of Sam's needs.

_Hell_.

Sam came out of the motel with his coat slung over his arm, and Bobby came out of his room at the same time.

"You two ready?" He saw Sam's bare feet and looked questioningly at Dean, who flushed.

Sam saw the exchange and his mouth tightened. "Yeah, Bobby, we're good. Listen, on the way, we're thinking we might stop at a Wal-mart or something, pick up a pair of shoes." He grinned, trying to make light of it. "Mine took a little side trip on the way home last night!"

Bobby nodded. "Sure, just let me know and I'll pull over." He got into his car and started it up.

Sam stood next to the passenger seat and looked across the top at his brother. "Okay?"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said apologetically. "I should've noticed -"

Sam shook his head. "Don't, Dean. It's just shoes. Let's go."

OOOOOO

They stopped at a Wal-Mart Super Center three towns over. Bobby waited outside in his car, having no wish, as he put it, to descend into the seventh level of hell, while the two boys went inside and picked up a pair of shoes for Sam.

Once they were back on the road and Sam's feet were safe from, well, whatever, Dean broached the subject he'd been chewing over since finding out that Sam was shoeless.

"Hey, uh, Sam? About the shoes . . ."

Sam sighed. "Jeez, Dean, let it go already!"

"No, Sam, it's not just the shoes, it's - you used to tell me when you needed something," Dean said curiously. "How come - now you don't?"

"Dean - I didn't used to tell you. You just always knew." Sam shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Money's tight. I get that."

"Not so tight you can't have more than one pair of damned shoes!" Dean snapped.

"Dean -

"Why didn't you ask Dad?"

Sam looked out the passenger window and didn't answer.

Dean huffed out an angry breath. "You asked him and he blew you off, didn't he? Hell, _I'd've _gotten you the damned shoes, Sam! Why didn't you ask _me_?"

"Maybe I'm tired of asking!" Sam snapped. "Maybe I wanted you to see that I needed something without me having to beg for it!"

"_Beg_?"

"Damn it, Dean, I have to ask for everything! _Everything._ I can't buy anything, _do _anything, on my own. It's _humiliating_! Dad works. _You _work. _Dad _won't let me. Except for when I was going to school or hunting, I'm on 24-hour lockdown!"

"Sam, Dad just wants to keep you safe," Dean protested.

"Bullshit. If Dad were worried about keeping me safe, he wouldn't be throwing me at Wendigos," Sam said bitterly. "Kids my age have _jobs, _Dean. They get licenses and drive. _You've _been working since you were 14, under the table when you had to. I'm _sixteen_."

"Sam, maybe if you talk to him, if _we_ talk to him –"

"Oh, come _on_!" Sam said furiously, slamming a hand against the dashboard. "He's _not_ going to change! The bastard's had his boot on the back of my neck for fucking _years _and I am just _done_!"

"What the hell does that mean?" Cursing himself, Sam looked away from Dean.

"Sam?"

After a moment, Sam said tightly, "Nothing, Dean. It doesn't mean a damned thing."

OOOOOO

It was late when they got to Bobby's, well past midnight. Yawning, duffel bags slung over their shoulders, the boys followed him into the familiar house and straight into the kitchen.

"You boys hungry?"

Dean grinned. "Starving, man."

Bobby cuffed him affectionately. "You're a bottomless pit, kid." He looked inquiringly at Sam. "How 'bout you?"

Sam shook his head wearily. "You mind if I just head upstairs? I'm kind of tired."

"Sure, go ahead. You know the way. How about pancakes for breakfast? And I'm pretty sure I've got some bacon."

"Sounds good."

"How's the ankle?" Dean asked.

"It's fine."

Dean watched him on the stairs until Sam was safely up and he heard the bedroom door close.

When he turned back to Bobby, his face was panicked. "He's gonna run."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

John felt like dog crap. Having the muzzle of Bobby's shotgun stuck in his face wasn't helping.

After leaving the motel, he'd gone straight to the nearest bar and drunk himself into near insensibility. He'd managed to get back to the motel without killing himself, but had gotten a room of his own, not wanting to face his sons until he'd sobered up.

When he'd found all three of them gone in late morning, it had been a rude shock. Neither of the boys had answered their phones and Bobby hadn't picked up on his either.

Of course, it hadn't been hard to figure out where they'd gone to.

Now, head aching and temper raw, John said brusquely, "I've been calling all day. Why didn't you answer?"

"Didn't feel like talking to you," Bobby said baldly.

John flushed. "You didn't think I needed to know where my boys are?"

"I wasn't thinking about you at all, jackass. I was more worried about your sons."

John rubbed a tired hand over his stubbled face. "I need to see them, Bobby."

Bobby shrugged, his eyes not unsympathetic. "They might not want to see _you_."

"Damn it, I'm their father!"

"Too bad you didn't remember that before you told Sam it's his fault that demon killed Mary."

John flinched and looked down at the ground. "I'm more sorry for that than I can say," he finally managed. "I'd give anything - please, Bobby. I need to make this right."

Bobby studied him, seeing the guilt and humiliation eating at the man below the anger. Sighing, he lowered his shotgun.

OOOOOO

Sam watched as his father's truck pulled up in front of the house. When his father got out of the truck, Bobby came outside and the two spoke for couple of minutes. Then Bobby stalked back into the house, followed closely by John.

Almost to the house, John stopped and looked up at the second story window. His eyes met Sam's and they stared at each other for a long minute. Then John continued on into the house.

Sam sighed. All it took was one look and he felt like a little kid again. A helpless little kid.

The smells of breakfast were wafting up the stairs and into their room. It made him feel a little nauseous.

He heard Dean stirring in bed behind him and turned to see his brother sitting groggily up.

"Hey."

"Was that Dad's truck?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Sam tried to smile. "Guess Bobby didn't mean it about the rock salt after all."

"It'll be okay." Dean looked at Sam guardedly. "You going down?"

Sam shook his head. "Not yet. In a while. Why don't you go down, get some breakfast. Smells like it's about done."

Dean sniffed the air and sighed blissfully. "Damn, if Bobby were a woman and thirty years younger, I'd marry him."

He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt. At the door, he paused and looked back at Sam, who was still sitting in the chair by the window.

"You look like crap. Did you sleep at all?"

Sam shrugged.

"When are you coming down?"

"In a while." He smiled, trying to take that worried look out of his brother's eyes.. "You better get down there, Dean, before Dad eats all the bacon."

OOOOOO

"Dad?" As Dean entered the room, he sighed inwardly. Great. John was hung-over. That didn't bode well for any encounter with Sam. His patience would be at a minimum. And since Sam didn't seem to be pulling any punches these days, it was likely to be a _loud_ encounter.

"Son," John said stiffly. "Where's your brother?"

"Upstairs."

John started for the study door and Dean stepped in front of him.

"Dad –"

"What exactly do you think I'm going to do to him?" John snapped, his headache pushing his resolution to step softly right out the window.

"Gee, I don't know, Dad," Dean said coolly. "Maybe tell him that he killed Mom?"

"I never said that, Dean." John said defensively, passing a shaking hand through his hair.

"Next best thing." Dean went to the fridge and got a glass of juice for his father. "Drink that, before you pass out. Jesus, you're not any better than Sammy at taking care of yourself."

Making a face, John drank the juice. "Is he okay?"

"No, he's not okay, Dad." Dean said sharply. "He's completely fucked up."

John sighed. "I'll make it up to him, Dean, I promise. Once we're back on the road, things will get back to normal." He sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

"What, are you kidding? We're not going with you. Not now. We're staying with Bobby for a few days."

"No, you're not. Sam can't stay here. Not without me. And I'm pretty sure Bobby doesn't want me here."

"Got that right," Bobby said easily. "But the boys, they're welcome. They can stay as long as they want to."

"No," John said flatly. "Sam _has_ to stay with me."

The other two men frowned at him, sensing something beyond the simple need to control his youngest son.

"What the hell is going on, Dad?" Dean asked suspiciously. "You're acting pretty weird, even for you."

John stared at his hands. "Can't you just trust me?" he asked pleadingly. "Trust me to know what's right for Sam?"

"I might. I'm stupid that way," Dean said, "but Sam won't. You hurt him. Bad."

"Damn it." John said angrily. "This is more important than your brother's hurt feelings!"

"_Hurt feelings_!" Dean said incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Dean –"

"John, you jackass, are you gonna make me get my shotgun out again?" Bobby looked grim.

"No, Bobby, wait, there's something " - John's need to protect his sons warred with his instinct to keep quiet. "There's something you two don't know."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean sarcastically. "That's nothing new. But if you want to get anywhere near Sam, you're gonna have to come out with whatever the hell is going on!"

John slowly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his hunting journal. At least, Dean thought at first that it was his hunting journal. At second glance he saw that it was a different book. Not as old and worn out.

"What I said to Sam – I never should've said his mother's death was his fault. That wasn't true." He tapped the book. "But when I said that the demon was there for him – _that_ was the truth."

Dean stiffened but didn't speak, just waited for his father to continue.

John look at them seriously. "What I found out – Sam can never know this."

"I can't promise that, Dad," Dean protested.

"I'm not worried about that, son. When you hear what I have to say, you won't want him to know either," John said sorrowfully.

Dean paled. "What is it, Dad?

"The night your mother died, the demon - he fed your brother his blood."

Dean blanched and Bobby cursed.

"Why the hell did he do that?" Dean's voice trembled.

John shook his head. "I don't know all of it," he said wearily. "But I know Sam's not the only one. I found four other children whose mothers were killed on the night of their child's six month anniversary. Demon sign was recorded on that night in the immediate area. I also found two cases where the child died in the fire along with the mother, and one where the child died but the mother lived."

"Jesus_ Christ_!" Dean whispered. "What the hell is going on?"

There was a very slight pause. "I don't know."

"_Dad_ –" Dean said warningly.

"I don't _know_, Dean!" John almost shouted. "I – don't - know! I've been working on this for _years_. I've questioned as many demons as I could get my hands on; none of them knew anything except"- he broke off.

"Don't you stop, Dad!"

"The children," John said reluctantly. "They're all supposed to have psychic powers. So far as I can see, they haven't actually manifested yet, but it's only a matter of time."

Bobby and Dean stared at him in dismay.

"We don't know what the blood means for Sam, Dean," John went on. "That's why I need to keep him with me. I need to keep an eye on him."

"What do you think's going to happen?" Dean demanded.

John shook his head.

"Dad, you're not thinking Sam's going to turn into a demon –"

There was a soft sound at the kitchen door. Dean jumped to his feet in alarm when he saw Sam standing there, his eyes wide with horror.

"Sam," John faltered. "Son, it's not what you think -"

Sam turned and ran for the stairs.

OOOOOO

Sam heard Dean burst from the kitchen behind him and he ran faster, ignoring the scream of pain from his ankle, using the banister to help move him up the stairs, trying to hang on to the slim lead he had over his older brother.

"Sam! Wait!" Dean's voice was frantic.

Sam reached the top of the stairs a few feet ahead of Dean. He ran for the bedroom and dove in, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him.

"Sam! Open the damned door!" Dean threw himself against the door. "Sam!"

Sam could hear John and Bobby pounding up the stairs. He looked around the room frantically, ignoring the open window. Only two floors up - too far to jump, not far enough to break his neck.

He saw Dean's duffel on the floor and stumbled over to it, dumping it out on the floor.

There. Dean's knife. The one Dad had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Dean's pride and joy.

Sam slid it out of the scabbard, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the thin, razor-sharp edge.

This oughta do it.

OOOOOO

When Dean smashed through the bedroom door, he saw Sam sitting on the floor, holding Dean's knife to his throat. He didn't look up when the door burst open.

Dean froze and felt his father and Bobby come to a gasping halt behind him.

"Sam," he whispered. "Please don't."

Sam calmly pressed the knife against his throat and a thin line of blood dripped down onto the floor. "Don't come near me."

"I won't, I promise!" Dean tried to stay calm. "Sam, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," Sam said, staring tranquilly at the crimson blade. "I really do."

"Sam, look at me, please."

Sam closed his eyes. If he looked at Dean, he'd never be able to do this. And he needed to do this. Everything would be okay if he could just do this.

No more hunting. No more fear. No more failure. No more demon blood. No more anything.

"Do you think I'll go to hell?" Sam asked, voice small and child-like. "They say suicides go to hell. If that happens, I won't get to see Mom." He sighed. "Well. I guess that's okay. She's probably mad at me anyway."

"Son," John said, horrified. "You didn't kill your mother. Please, I'm so sorry I said that to you. It's not true, it wasn't your -"

"Don't talk to me," Sam said, voice rising and eyes opening, wide and staring. "Don't you talk to me!"

Bobby put a hand on John's arm. John, with a desperate look at his youngest, took a hesitant step back.

"Sam, please," Dean said desperately. "_Please _don't."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I have to."

"_No_!" Dean took a step forward but stopped again as the knife pressed harder against Sam's throat.

_I can do this_. Sam took a firmer grip on the blade. _It'll only hurt for a minute. _

"Sam," said Bobby.

Sam didn't look at him.

"Sam!"

Sam jerked a little. "Bobby."

Bobby kept his voice calm and steady. "Son, I'm not gonna pretend I understand how you feel. I'm not gonna say everything is gonna be all right, because I don't know what the hell's gonna happen."

"But I do know you and I know your brother." Bobby took a deep breath. "If you kill yourself now, you kill your brother, too."

Dean didn't react at all to that statement; his eyes were intent on his brother.

Sam turned his head slightly toward Bobby.

"He might not do the job himself, but it'll happen. Maybe driving that damned car of his too fast. Or maybe just not watching his own back close enough on a hunt."

Sam started to tremble. He shook his head, the knife moving slightly away from his throat.

"So you need to ask yourself," Bobby said gently, though relentlessly, "even if you're ready to kill yourself – are you ready to kill your brother, too?"

Sam dropped the knife.

Dean lunged forward and grabbed it, flinging it into a corner of the room.

Helpless, hopeless, Sam started to sag to one side. Dean scooted in close to him and put his arms around him, holding him up. "Sam," he whispered softly. "We won't let anything happen to you, I _promise_."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Dean!" Sam started to cry, burying his face against his brother. "I'm a monster!"

Dean hugged him even tighter. "You're not a monster, Sam," he whispered heartbrokenly into his brother's dark hair. "Damn it, you're _not_."

Dean felt more than heard Bobby leave the room. John came to stand beside them, looking down at his sons. After a moment, moving slowly, he lowered himself to the floor beside them and wrapped his arms around them both.

Sam shuddered reflexively.

"You're my son, Sam," John said softly. "I love you. No matter what that bastard demon did to you, that will never change."

Tears spilled out of Dean's eyes and he pressed his face against his father's shoulder.

"I love you," John repeated, willing them to hear the truth in his voice. "I love you both."

Sam relaxed slightly against Dean, his eyes fixed on his father's face.

"It's gonna be okay, boys," John murmured, his voice low and comforting. "I swear to you. I'm gonna make this right."

END

OOOOOOOOOO

I am determined, no matter how many daddy issues I have, John is NOT going to be a dick in every fic I write. Yes, he's a psycho hoser in "My Boys", but NOT HERE!

I wanted to get his single-mindedness, his unwavering focus on his target. But I also wanted it to be really clear that John loves his boys, even if he is completely incapable of showing it most of the time.

I just saw 'In My Time of Dying' again. Hadn't seen that ep for a while. I'd forgotten how beautiful that last scene with John and Dean was, when he was telling Dean how much he loved him and how proud he is. Of course, then he goes on to completely fuck it up by telling Dean he has to either save Sam or kill him. But hey, nobody's perfect.

Hope you-all liked it.


End file.
